


Return to the Shadows

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Series: Remembrance [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-07
Updated: 2002-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26442838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: by UluithielFrodo's Darakness continues to haunt him
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: Remembrance [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922128
Kudos: 2
Collections: Least Expected





	Return to the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the hobbits, nor the wizard, nor the premise. I do, however, accept complete responsibility for all the angst I'm putting them through in this series.  
> Story Notes: Oh, Frodo!

9 June 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)  
Minas Tirith

> "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." _Fellowship of the Ring_ p 60

Frodo wakes to nightmare.

Rough stones slimy rags, cold under naked skin. Dizzy, disoriented, sick.

Feebly he stirs.

A clamor of hideous voices, a rough hand grasps Frodo's hair, yanks him to his feet. He cries out, head bursting, mind reeling. He opens his eyes to a snarling Orc holding him upright by his hair, leering into his face.

His left shoulder throbs with cold agony, the back of his neck with evil fire. His stomach twists, his head is bursting, but the worst. . . .

 _Nothing_. A void, emptiness, a vacancy at his breast. *It's gone*.

He is thrown brutally to the floor, bruised on the stones, face pressed into fetid rags. His wrists and ankles are pinned by horribly strong claws; an Orc descends upon him and he shrieks as agony rips through him.

It's gone. . It's gone. . . the Quest has failed. . I have failed. . all is lost. . It's gone. . I have failed I havefailedihavefailedihavefailed. . . .

. . . . the tearing agony goes on and on. . . .

I have failed, It's gone It's gone it'sgoneitsgoneforever. My punishment -- my _just_ punishment -- will go on forever and ever and ever as Middle Earth descends into darkness. . . . .

. . . . ihavefailedihavefailedihavefailed. . . .

Frodo knows he has no right to scream, but he cannot repress a tiny whimper: "Gandalf. . . .Gandalf!"

* * *

A miracle.

The claws loose him. He skitters across the slimy stones but they are yielding, billowing around him, they aren't stones at all, he's lying on a feather mattress with soft linen sheets and. . . .

"Frodo!"

Sam. A miracle.

"Frodo. I'm here. It's your Sam. Come back, Frodo. Don't go there no more! Don't go. . ."

Frodo's eyes opened. Sam was grasping his arms gently, eyes searching his face urgently. Frodo was panting, sweating, terrified, but he was back. He could see Sam, he could see the hangings around their bed.

With a whimper he launched himself into Sam's arms. Sam held him close, arms and legs wrapped around him so tight it hurt, not nearly tight enough, lips in Frodo's hair murmuring of love and comfort. . . Sam . . . Sam. . . .

Frodo did not hear the door open, so when he felt the gentle hand on his head and looked up, the white-robed figure could have been another apparition. But this one was welcome, this was the one he had summoned.

Gandalf swept up both Ringbearers in his arms, a warm blanket tucked around them, and strode to the chair before the fire. "Naur an edraith ammen!" He spoke softly, and the banked coals blazed.

Gandalf sat in the great chair cradling Frodo and Sam in his lap. Frodo was wrapped in Sam, arms and legs intertwined, soft wool against bare skin, warmed in Gandalf's enveloping incandescence. He closed his eyes. This was Eldamar, this was Valinor. This was all he ever wanted.

Except. . . .

* * *

. . . . Flames leap hungrily. There is a rumor and a rumbling as of great engines in the depths. Frodo stands at the very Crack of Doom, as still as if he had been turned to stone. . . . .

* * *

"Frodo." Gandalf's voice was commanding. "Frodo. Where have you gone? Take us with you."

Frodo started, gazed at the wizard. "Frodo. You cannot continue to go into the Shadow alone. Take us with you. Tell us what you are seeing. Let us help you." Sam's arms squeezed encouragement, his lips soft behind Frodo's ear.

* * *

. . . . Flames leap hungrily. There is a rumor and a rumbling as of great engines in the depths. Frodo stands at the very Crack of Doom, as still as if he had been turned to stone. His hand rises to his breast. In exaltation he grasps the Ring and, with a great wrench, bursts the chain on which it had hung so long. Glorying in his victory, he raises his arm to cast the Ring into the fire.

The Ring's voice is shrieking in his head. *"Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"*

And the familiar promises, threats, coaxings. He sees again, very vividly, himself as White Lord of Middle Earth, restoring all to its former beauty and peace. He sees Sam, healed of his hurts and weariness, at his side forever. He sees a land filled with Elves and Men and industrious Dwarves, all living in harmony, and a Shire blooming unparalled, filled with merry, carefree hobbits.

He is not moved, not tempted. He is familiar with these blandishments. He knows them all to be vain. He raises his arm to cast the Ring into the Fire.

When. . . a soft voice. Not the razor-shriek of the song ( _ash nazg durbatuluk. . . ._ ), not the oily insinuating voice of the Temptor ( _all this can be. . ._ ), but a soft, fair voice speaking a single word. With a shock Frodo recognizes the language as Elvish.

"Lostaren".

Forget.

And Frodo is rocked to the core. The word sings through him, cool and light. _Lostaren_. His heart lifts, his mind is cleared of its dark mists. _Lostaren_. To erase his memories, to give him the balm of forgetfulness . . . . .

In ecstasy Frodo turns, raises the Ring high, glorying in its shine, in its promise . . . ai! _Lostaren_.

"I do not now choose to do this!" he cries. "The Ring is mine!" He draws the Ring onto his finger, ravished by the cool golden slide, swooning in its seductive embrace.

* * *

Frodo had fallen silent. His tears dripped slowly onto Sam's hands. Sam cradled him close, cheek pressed against Frodo's hair while Gandalf held them both. Frodo could hear the wizard's heartbeat, slow and steady and soothing. He let the tears fall.

"I will not ask you to forgive me, Frodo. I fear I shall never forgive myself."

Frodo's head jerked up, his eyes wide and startled, but Sam smiled and nestled gratefully closer to Gandalf.

"In Rivendell I vowed that I would help you carry your Burden. Yet ever when you were in greatest danger, I was not with you.

"At the beginning your journey, I was in the dungeons of Isengard. When you faced the Witch King at Weathertop, I was flying across the Wild. And I left you at Khazad Dum. I left you to face the most perilous portion of your Quest alone.

"Frodo, Sam . . . . of all the horrors of the War of the Ring; of all the losses sustained by Middle Earth in this terrible strife, there are none I regret so bitterly as those you have borne.

"The wise cannot see all ends -- and, if they are wise, why should they expect to? You were meant to carry the Ring into Mordor alone. . . together. Yet greatly do I rue the cost to you. Would that I could bear some of the pain for you."

Frodo looked into the face of his friend, guide, teacher. . . father. He saw there an emotion he would never have expected on that wise visage. He saw shame.

"You cannot blame yourself, Gandalf!" he cried. "None of this is your fault. We could never have prevailed without you. This has been your greatest task, your triumph! How can you say you have wronged me, wronged us? None of what has happened is your fault!"

Neither Gandalf nor Sam spoke. After long minutes, Frodo's slow tears resumed, releasing the shame, cooling the pain. "Nor, perhaps, is any of this _my_ fault," he whispered.

"The solution, Frodo, is to look at what _is_ ," said Gandalf. "And the problem is to look at what is, and deem it evil."


End file.
